


Competitive

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Established Relationship, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Come on,' Colonello pleads to the taut line of Ryohei’s shoulders. 'It’s clearly my win.'" Colonello wins a round of sparring with Ryohei and they both spend a little longer against the mats than they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competitive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aceromanoffs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aceromanoffs).



“Come  _on_ ,” Colonello pleads to the taut line of Ryohei’s shoulders. “It’s  _clearly_  my win.”

“It’s not over yet!” Ryohei insists. His claim might be more believable were his face not currently pressed against the mats underneath them, Colonello’s fingers pressed in against the back of his head to keep him there. His legs are free, it’s true, but he lacks the flexibility to do anything particularly productive with them, not with the other’s weight resting solidly on his hips and Colonello’s other hand occupied in pinning Ryohei’s right hand up behind his back.

“Ryohei,” Colonello sighs. “I love you but you’re being ridiculous.”

“I can still make an extreme comeback!” Ryohei insists. His free hand comes out, presses against the mat in an attempt to push himself up, but Colonello’s expecting that, tips his weight forward to keep Ryohei where he is.

“No,” he says, “You can’t. Just admit you’ve lost and we can go another round.”

“Never!” Ryohei shouts, the sound only half-muffled by the mats underneath them. He’s still trying to push up, angling for traction he can’t quite get with Colonello sitting on top of him; Colonello can see the muscles working across his bare shoulders, the flex of effort across Ryohei’s back as he attempts, again, to sit up. The view isn’t helping his concentration any more than the occasional movement of Ryohei’s hips is; he has to flex his hold on Ryohei’s arm tighter to bring himself back to reality, shake his head to clear the heat-haze from his thoughts.

“So what, are we just going to stay here all day?” Colonello asks, shifting his hand down from Ryohei’s head to brace against the back of his neck instead, low enough for him to feel the strain of effort running through the other’s body. “With me holding you down until you run out of energy?”

“I have an extreme advantage!” Ryohei declares. “I can outlast you at anything!”

It’s true, Colonello knows; with sun flame against his rain, endurance isn’t in his favor. Ryohei’s the one who can muster the energy to keep sparring for hours at a time, to go straight from the workout room to the bedroom, to --

“Fuck,” Colonello sighs. “Are you  _sure_  you don’t want to give up?”

“What?” Ryohei asks, turning his head far enough that Colonello can see the shape of the bandage pressed against his nose. “Why would I?”

Colonello slides his weight back an inch, tips his hips to rock himself against the curve of Ryohei’s ass. With just sweatpants between them there’s not much space for misinterpretation of the hard line of arousal Colonello’s cock is making against the front of his clothes.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ryohei says, an exclamation that drops into the low shape of a growl. “You should have told me.”

“I just did,” Colonello points out. He hasn’t moved back; the resistance feels good, the firm line of Ryohei’s body pressed against the ache of want in his cock. “We could move to the bedroom.”

There’s a pause, too long and too tense, and Colonello knows what Ryohei’s going to say before he says it, is sighing resignation as a backdrop when Ryohei says, “If you let me up we can go.”

“Not until you say I won,” Colonello insists, even if he can feel his pulse sticking fast in his skin, even if he’s actively leaning in to grind himself against Ryohei’s ass. “Say it first.”

“No way,” Ryohei says, and then he shifts his hips. For a moment Colonello thinks he’s trying to break free, starts to throw himself forward to pin the other to the ground; then he takes in the rhythm of the motion, the familiarity of that particular hip tilt, and when he exhales it’s all the air in his lungs in a single gust.

“You can’t just get off against the floor,” he says, spreads his legs a little wider so he can better brace his weight against Ryohei’s hips. When he shifts his knees in to pin Ryohei tighter between his thighs Ryohei makes a strangled, overheated sound, bucks so hard against the floor Colonello can see the force ripple all up the line of his back. “Just surrender and I’ll take you to the bedroom.”

“I can too!” Ryohei insists. “This is more than enough!”

“Really,” Colonello says, and he’s trying to sound skeptical but it just comes out low and purring like seduction. “You’re going to come just from grinding against the mats through your sweatpants.”

“Sure I am,” Ryohei says in the brash tone that should sound like bragging and only ever comes out sincere. “I can beat you to it, too.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. Then:

“You’re on,” Colonello mock-growls, and he’s leaning in against Ryohei’s spine, and when he moves the angle of his hips no longer has the least intent of holding the other down. But Ryohei’s not trying to break free anymore either; all his action is pinned to his hips, he’s falling into a rhythmic pattern as he bucks himself against the floor, and this is stupid, they should just go to the bedroom, but Colonello is grinning and flushed with amused delight and it’s nice to see the span of Ryohei’s shoulders under him, the sweat-flushed slick of his spine curving down to the top edge of the sweatpants clinging to his hips. Colonello spreads his fingers wide, slides his hand down over Ryohei’s shoulders to feel the strength under his fingers, the heat of exertion radiating out to warm his hand like sunlight.

“This is ridiculous,” Colonello points out, although he’s not stopping; there’s heat purring up his spine, spilling a little higher with each steady motion of his hips, and he doubts it’ll be enough to get him to orgasm but it feels good anyway, the long slow build of suggestion in his veins. “We should just move.”

“No way,” Ryohei says against the mat, sounding breathless and excited. He braces his hand at the floor, tightens his fingers to hold himself in place, and when he moves again he gets a good inch of motion. It’s enough to tighten Colonello’s forehead, to purr an involuntary whine up his throat, and Ryohei groans into the mat and does it again. “I don’t...need anything else.”

“You could fuck me over the end of the bed,” Colonello offers, not making any attempt to temper the way the words turn into a sultry moan in the back of his throat.

Ryohei tips his head, glances at Colonello sideways. When he smiles it’s wide and bright, catches the light as surely as the gunmetal grey of his eyes. “I can do that after anyway.”

“Fuck,” Colonello offers succinctly, and when Ryohei rocks against the floor again the movement takes all his coherency with it. He leans in closer, slides down to fit himself against the sloping line of Ryohei’s back, and when he sets his teeth at Ryohei’s shoulder in a gentle bite the sound the other man makes goes through him like raw heat. There’s salt at his lips, heat on his tongue and spiraling out into his veins, and for a minute Colonello thinks maybe this will be enough after all, the friction of Ryohei moving under him and the taste of Ryohei’s skin on his tongue.

Then Ryohei stiffens, shoulders hunching in against the mat, and Colonello just manages to blurt “Shit” in recognition of his loss before Ryohei shudders in the unmistakable rhythm of orgasm. It’s a strange combination of arousing and frustrating, to have Ryohei panting and trembling through pleasure when Colonello is on top of him the wrong-way around and still tense with the anticipation of his own satisfaction.

“Shit,” Colonello says again, more overheated than actually angry, and since the competition is over he’s reaching down to his own pants, dragging at the drawstring to tug them open so he can fit his hand in around himself.

“Wait,” Ryohei says, and he’s moving, faster than Colonello expected while he’s still breathing hard from pleasure. Fingers close at Colonello’s wrist, catch his hand shy of contact with himself, and they’re turning, Ryohei twisting over and kicking at the floor to invert their positions faster than Colonello can think to resist. He’s not sure he would bother to resist anyway; as it is his shoulders have no sooner hit the mat than he’s reaching up, offering his second wrist for Ryohei’s hold so the other can pin him down while reaching for the front of his pants.

“I got you,” Ryohei growls reassurance, the sound rough and satisfied in his throat, and Colonello doesn’t make any effort to break free. He’s content under the shadow of Ryohei’s shoulders, pleased to rock his hips up to meet the catch of Ryohei’s fingers at the front of his pants. The texture of taped-over skin is familiar, catches hot in his throat, and when Ryohei grins and leans in for a kiss Colonello is closing his eyes and smiling in anticipation before the contact comes. Ryohei’s mouth is hot, the slide of his tongue quick and smooth, and while Colonello is whining expectation against the other’s lips those fingers fit under his waistband and tighten into a steady grip around his cock.

“Ah,” Ryohei says, sounding breathless and delighted as Colonello gasps and bucks up against his hold. “You’re extremely hard.”

Colonello has to laugh, even if the sound comes out shaky around the desire tightening all along his spine. “Yeah,” he admits while Ryohei settles his grip. “You didn’t win by that much.”

“We can have a rematch,” Ryohei offers, and then starts to move before Colonello can answer, fingers dragging with the quick, rough efficiency that always scatters the blond’s attention into fragments. He doesn’t realize he’s arching off the floor, doesn’t process that it’s only Ryohei’s continued hold at his wrists keeping him in place; all he’s aware of is the friction, the satisfaction of heat pouring out into him with every one of Ryohei’s movements, like he’s absorbing all the warmth coming off Ryohei’s skin until he’s glowing from the inside.

“God,” he’s saying, one of his feet catching on the mat to rock him up higher off the floor. “God, fuck, Ryohei, don’t stop.”

“Yeah,” Ryohei growls, and Colonello doesn’t know if it’s agreement or encouragement. When he tries to blink himself into focus he catches a glimpse of hot-shadowed eyes, lips parted around a grin of satisfaction, shoulders shifting with the effort of holding him down; then a thumb slides up, catches against the head of his cock, and his head’s tipping back of its own accord, his throat working over a gasping inhale as every muscle in his body tries to tighten at the same time. Then Ryohei’s hand moves, the downstroke to that unstoppable pattern, and Colonello collapses to the mat, gasping incoherent appreciation as he shudders his way into orgasm against Ryohei’s fingers.

He isn’t sure how long it lasts; it feels like a while, or maybe it’s just that time itself slows down to accommodate the flare of heat all through his veins. By the time he’s blinking himself into coherency again Ryohei’s hold at his wrists is gone, the other man is rocked back on his heels to gaze consideringly at the tape wrapped around his right hand.

“This is extremely sticky,” he observes. “I should rewrap it.”

“You should probably take a shower,” Colonello suggests. “I could do with one.”

Ryohei looks up, quick and bright, and Colonello doesn’t need to look down at the front of his sweatpants to know what he’s thinking.

“Come  _on_ ,” he pleads, pushing himself up off the mat so he can stand on shaky legs. “It’s been what, two minutes? Give me a little while to recover.”

“It takes a while to shower,” Ryohei declares, springing to his feet with more energy than he should be capable of, under the circumstances. “I can wait until the end.”

Colonello rolls his eyes. “Sun users,” he sighs. “You’re insatiable.” The protest sounds more doting than irritated, though, and when Ryohei steps in behind him to fit his sticky hands at Colonello’s waist and purr wordless suggestion into his hair, Colonello doesn’t even try to resist the urge to lean back and fit himself against the sturdy lines of Ryohei’s chest.

It’s another half hour before they make it to the shower at all, and by that point, any thought of protest is completely absent from Colonello’s mind.


End file.
